


Crimson

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Crimson Days, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 11:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: Snapshots of a relationship in shades of red.





	Crimson

The first time she touches him, it's with a cold hand against his side. She slides a clean palm over blackened flesh, weeping angrily with infection. He flinches; She moved so silently he never heard her approach. It's yet another reminder of how absolutely helpless he feels without his Light.

Where her features had been severe and angry in all of their encounters to date, now he finds concern in the pull of her lips, the darkness of her gaze.

“What were you thinking?” She asks, almost validating her concern, before adding under her breath “You're lucky you're not septic.” She withdraws her hand, ordering him, “Do not move from this spot.”

It's the most cordial thing she's said to him to date. He's even more surprised when she returns quickly, what looks like an old toolbox under her arm and clean flannels draped over it.

“We're short on painkillers,” She tells him… almost apologetically? “But I don't want to wait for the scouts to return tomorrow night with supplies.”

“It's fine,” He tries to insist, willing himself to be stoic and grateful in front of this woman who so vehemently looks down upon him and his kind. She moves to stand in front of him, eyes searching his fiercely, and somehow it's easier.

Her fingers brush his brow, lingering a moment. They're cool, like the freshwater stream that feeds into the lake. She shakes her head. “You Guardians don't know what our normal feels like, to know when something's wrong.” As if talking to a child, she explains, “Your wound is infected, which is why you have a fever. I do not want it to get worse.”

Two blinks later she's pushing him by the shoulders down onto a rickety stool. “Hawthorne,” He grouses, “I can-”

She ignores him in favor of pouring disinfectant down the side of his abdomen. He gasps at the sensation of icy cold and the sting of solution only because she's caught him off guard. “I'm going to cut away the infected tissue,” She tells him, and carefully slashes at the blackened flesh. “If you need a break, let me know.” He grits his teeth and bears it, until puss and ichar give away to crimson rivulets of oxygenated blood and healthy tissue.

When she tells him she's impressed that he didn't so much as flinch, she means it. He's so caught off guard by the sincerely that she's gone before he can express his gratitude. Not that he planned to die to a festering wound made by a Cabal slug rifle that he'd ignored through his expedition starside, but according to the infirmary reports he receives in the coming days, it may have been a remote possibility.

-/

When a Captain throws her bodily across the ramshackle Fallen campground on an op focused on resecuring stolen supplies, Zavala sees red. He does not think, heart pounding hard as instincts take over. He will not let them take any more of his people. It’s a quick, angry slide over crates, a lightless shoulder charge with the larger of his two pauldrons that sends the bastard careening similarly, but off a conveniently placed cliff.

Hawthorne’s eyes blink blearily and focus on him as she comes to. He’s leaning over her, eyes ablaze in concern, refusing to let her up until she proves she can track the movements of his hands with her eyes and has no pain in any of her extremities. She barely holds back her amusement at his polite over-protectiveness, wondering offhandedly if he knows that his jaw ticks when he makes that face.

Finally, he extends a hand to help her up. Where he once thought he saw pride he sees independence, wariness from spending so much time alone on the frontier, but she does take his hand. It’s smaller, even with her gauntlets, than his, and he squeezes as he pulls her to her feet.

She nods her head, regaining her equilibrium with a brief sway. “You guys got all of ‘em?” She queries.

“I believe so. Looks like they were unable to make it very far with our goods. We should be able to bring them back to the Farm before dark without issue.”

“Good work, Guardian,” She quips, and he finds himself keying in on the lack of sarcasm in her playful tone. When had that happened?

-/

His arms come around her without a second thought. She does not question it either, instead sagging backward into his embrace. Neither of them speak for a long time, until her breathing resumes its normal cadence. When he thinks he should let go, something tells him he should be holding tighter.

That - the gentle, added pressure, the firm, steady hold - prompts her to turn and face him, scarlet, blotchy, tear-stained cheeks pressed into the battered plasteel of his cuirass. He realizes that she never asked for any of this. That where he is old, older than most of his comrades in arms, she is not. She did not have the blood of the innocent on her hands, had not until today.

“By my order,” She confesses in a tiny, heartbreaking whisper. “They died by my order.”

“They died by the hands of a murderer,” He corrects, “For a cause worth dying for. For a leader worth following until the bitter end.” His palm cups the back of her head when she cries harder. “Thumos will be held accountable for what he has done today. I promise you that. Our people will not die in vain.”

Her eyes lift to his, dark and open, and it’s like seeing her for the first time. Not the perception she intends to give others: the standoffish, independent woman who has survived a small eternity in the wilds, but instead the woman who cares, who dares to hope despite insurmountable odds, who feels every loss as if it were her own. The kindred spirit she hides deep inside. He’s caught glimpses of this woman, for all the time they’ve been coerced into spending together, working out the specifics of this war.

But now, now he sees her. All of her. Her heart. Her soul. The lonely melancholy, the stubborn braveness, the hopefully insecure woman who rushed in where angels feared to tread. The courage of a heart still willing to feel, despite the crushing weight leveraged upon it.

When she slots her mouth against his and he raises his palms to frame her face and return her advances, he knows that every reason they should not is precisely why they should. That when her tears subside and the world falls away, that what remains of his old, tired heart is safe here with the pieces of hers. That no matter how bruised or broken they may be, their jagged edges mend together into something different. He cannot think about tomorrow or when or after, just like he cannot possibly enumerate his yesterdays.

That, when they part, forehead to forehead, breathing heavy, for just this one moment, he is grateful to have suffered and lost: because perhaps, on the other side of this strife, they will endure to be something far greater than before.

-/

Ikora and Cayde regard him quietly. After the initial euphoria of their reunion fades away, they are left without the rose-tinted glasses of Light and eternity. They’d both heard his pleas - we rally on Titan - we are mounting a resistance at the Farm - and neither had responded. Not a word over comms, nor an encrypted message at least relaying their safety.

Your fireteam is your family, he tells his Titans. And yet, his own…

It’s strained. Ikora’s usual fearless yet reserved demeanor is cut with the harshness of mortality. Cayde does not know who to fall in with, but Ikora has always had a soft spot for his easy-going ways, a penchant for finding amusement in his antics despite her deadpan responses. They do not understand the harsh undercurrent of Zavala’s rage and thus they steel themselves away together.

He doesn’t realize that his fists bang against the wood of the workbench hard enough to splinter until nimble fingers slide down one arm and wrap around clenched fingers. She does not speak, does not push. This is what has his fist yielding, pads of his fingertips sliding between hers before falling away.

“There’s something I want to show you,” She says, when he casts his gaze her way.

She leads him to the roof of the Barn, to a safe patch of roof easy enough to retreat to. Despite the Shard looming in the distance, the sky is swathed in the vermilion glow of sunset, golds and oranges fading into burnt reds on the horizon. Below them, the refugee city begins to glow in white-yellow tones, repelling the oncoming darkness. His eyes remained trained on the skyline, the sun setting in the direction of home. She wonders if his fireteam truly cannot see all that weighs him down, or if they’re so used to it that he’s supposed to be able to bear it. Or, even still, perhaps they don’t care.

Suraya is neither of those things. She cannot - has not ever been able to - sit idly by and watch someone suffer if she can extend a hand. “Soon,” She tells him, when the sun dips out of sight and the glow is all that remains. “We’re almost there, Zavala.”

He nods pensively and reclines, laying on the patchy roof and looking up at the twilight sky.

“What will you do,” He asks her, “When it’s over?”

“I never thought about it,” She answers honestly. “I’ll probably help out for a while afterward, until I’m not needed.”

“And if you are needed still?”

She lays beside him on her side, hip to hip. “We come from two very different worlds,” She reminds him. “And you don’t need me. You might want me,” She whispers, as he draws her up and into him, “But you don’t-”

“You’re wrong,” He whispers, azure eyes alight on her face. “I do.” He kisses her in a way that implores her to believe him, in a way that tells her more than his words ever could damaged and betrayed he feels, how connection-starved he is. Guardian, Awoken, Titan, Commander, everything that he is and yet he is still human; Only one man. “They do, too. They will never not need you, Suraya,” He breathes.

Pulling away from him, she smiles, a sad quirk of her lips, drawing understanding with each breath. Her heartwood eyes are heavy as she regards him. “C’mon,” She whispers, rising.

  
“Where-”

“Somewhere more private,” She replies, with a knowing dip of her head. His eyes lock on hers, and she knows she’s made the right choice.

Intimacy is not something she’s ever encouraged in her adult life. Sure, she’d had hook-ups and hang-ups, but connections aren’t practical on the frontier. Here, with him, however -

There is no going back.

There is no way that the reverence he pays her every scar, every curve is simply physical attraction. No way that the way her fingers trail down his abdomen, tracing starlight beneath his skin, is just sex. No. This is a connection. Everything is different about it. From the way she arches under his practiced touch, to the way he calls her name like a prayer when he comes undone inside her. And after, when she shrugs into the soft red sweater he dons beneath his armor, when he curls around her like she’s the center of his universe and finds solace in the quiet of the night, she knows that they’ve both been changed. That maybe, just maybe, they are far more invested in each other than she cared to admit.

-/

This time, it’s Hawthorne reaching her hand to him and pulling him up from the ground after a brush with death. She’s stronger than she looks, though she’s far smaller in stature than her poncho gives her credit for. He grimaces and braces cracked ribs while she checks to ensure everyone is in position. Her eyes are fierce and steady, the adrenaline not getting to her.

Good, he thinks. They’re almost there. They’ve almost made i-

The barrier goes up behind them with a buzzing drone. Hawthorne turns. He is needed at the front lines, to see their plan through. She, however…

“I’ll work on this. You need to get moving.” She is strict business, tactician’s mind already thinking through how to override the barrier from the terminal beside it.

“Ikora,” He speaks into his communicator, “Cayde is in place and I’m en-route.” He has to say something to her. In case - in case this is it. The point from which - for one or both of them - there is no return. He smiles. How could he not have thought of it before? How fitting it is. “Good luck,” He intones, drawing her attention away from Arcite and Shaxx, their team on the other side of the barrier. Anticipation shines through her expression as he finishes, “Guardian.”

Her barely-there smirk is worth it. He allows himself a second to take her in before jogging off to join his fireteam: battle-worn scarlet poncho, rifle in hand, standing proud and strong. A symbol of hope for them all. A reminder of what they fight for.

-/

He finds her in the aftermath, in the Rich District. She stands reserved, withdrawn more than he's seen in almost all the time he's known her, letting someone berate her.

Hideo, his ghost reports to him, as they approach. That's Executor Hideo.

“I'm not here to cause you trouble,” She says tiredly. “I am here to let you know this zone is secure, and your people can come out from their bunkers. We've set up a triage station three blocks east, if anyone needs medical attention. And, if anyone wants to help-”

“We don't. We have our own issues,” He replies, “We don't have time to spare for whatever con you're running. The war is over. You can go back to your hut in the woods, where you belong.”

The scout nearest Hawthorne bristles. She sighs and puts a palm on his chest, pushing him backwards in a reminder to stand down. “Hideo, this is bigger than an old grudge.” Zavala moves between the group of scouts behind her as she continues, sounding exasperated, “What do you need? Food? Medical equipment? I'll send someone with what your people need.”

“We don't want anything from-”

Zavala edges between her and the disgruntled scout, taking a moment to examine her. Fatigue is obvious in her features, and he can tell by how she holds herself that she's sore (if not injured). It's Hideo's turn to bristle at the lack of acknowledgement.

“Commander!” He exclaims. “I was just going to find you. New Monarchy wants to help with the rebuild. Tell us how and we'll be happy to assist.”

Zavala nods, allowing the smallest visage of a smile to cross his features. Hawthorne's eyes narrow in distrust, until he grips her shoulder, saying, “I thought you had your own issues? Perhaps I misheard.” His eyes narrow. “If you wish to help, Hawthorne will delegate the tasks we require.”

Her dark eyes meet his brilliant ones as Hideo says, “With all due respect, Commander Zavala, this woman is a criminal! She has no business delegating anything to anyone. She is nothing. She does not belong-”

Lightning flashes in his glowing eyes. His features become wholly neutral, and he removes his hand from Hawthorne's shoulder.

“Suraya Hawthorne,” He intones, the low rumble of his words laced with something akin to anger, “Is the leader of the Farm. The founder of the Clans. She is someone you may wish to be acquainted with, as she will be instrumental in the rebuilding process.” He levels Hideo with a gaze that makes the man take a step back, reminds him of whom, exactly, he is dealing with. His tone remains clipped and polite. “I would have her at my back any day, Executor. Or is my endorsement not sufficient for you to let go of a decade-odd grudge?”

Hideo conceals his growl well, but not well enough. Nearby, one of his own - a guard, by the looks of the man's stance - steps forward. “Hawthorne,” The man's voice is a scratchy one, “What can we do?”

“Extra hands at the triage station would be a big help. We're moving over to the Market District next. The goal is to be at the base of the Tower in two days’ time.”

The man nods, signalling to those who linger behind, many of which hold crimson flags and banners to throw over any trace of the Cabal's previous occupation. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” The Clanswoman says. “I appreciate it.”

Zavala regards her once more as Hideo makes a final attempt to flag him down. His eyes stay locked on hers as he addresses the faction leader. “We have work to do. Your misgivings can wait for the next meeting of the Consensus.”

“You're kidding. Commander-”

He turns away, ushering Hawthorne with him. “Thank you for your assistance,” He calls over his shoulder.

The grin she gives him, like the Light thrumming beneath his skin, is a peculiar kind of warm. Like, for her, this is a victory.

-/

Brilliant eyes watch as she wraps the garment around her neck. Crochet was second nature to him, gave him time to contemplate and lose himself to his thoughts while never wavering from the task at hand. Her hands smooth down the twin ends of the scarf, reverently.

“You made this,” She says, “For me?”

Zavala nods.

Her cheeks flush almost as red as the scarf around her neck. Her Dawning gift for him is not nearly as wonderful, she explains, presenting him with a bundle that’s plainly wrapped - like her, it’s not fancy, simply practical - and he cannot contain his own mute surprise at the two items from the old Tower he had told her he missed the most. The books are yellowed, damaged by fire and tarnished by soot, but still intact.

“Where did you - The old Tower is quarant-” His eyes flash in silent contemplation, perhaps a touch of exasperated concern. She smiles, caught.

“I don’t answer to the Vanguard,” She reminds him, in a low drawl. “Luckily for you.”

“Those levels are at risk for collapse,” He presses. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know.” She shrugs. “But I wanted to.”

-/

Many, many months later, she stands beside him while he lights candles, taking a few precious moments away from his duties to help Amanda prepare for the Festival of the Lost. He does not move as fast as he could, and the faces that reflect back at him - countless ones who saw their end through the Red War and beyond - draw his attention away from the task at hand. He doesn’t realize the match he’s using has burned away and singed his fingers until Suraya is pulling his hand back and taking the tiny nub of it that remains unchanged.

“I will outlive you,” He says, when she shakes her head at his distracted actions. “You will age,” He continues.

She looks at him, masking her surprise. “Yeah, and?” She rubs a fingertip over his burned one. He does not flinch, and she can already see the healing take place. His ghost doesn't miss a trick. “You think just because I’ll be old that I won’t boss you around? Please.” Making eye contact, she continues, lighter, “Besides, there’s Golden Age research that says I might live a little longer now that the Traveler is awake again.”

When he looks away, she’s taken the matches from his other hand, and set about lighting the candles on her own.

Zavala’s voice is quiet, pensive when he finally speaks. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me that I’ll hurt you when I finally bite the dust, yeah, provided you don’t get sick of me before then,” She says, with a little laugh. “But we always knew I’d die long before you. I can’t change it, Zavala,” Her voice lowers. “I can’t blame you if you’d rather not-” The words are thicker, harder to force from her throat, but she knows he needs to hear them. “So you know.”

Cayde’s face smiles back at them on the holographic display. He sighs.

  
“Nothing worth having is easy,” He finally intones, willing himself to stand straighter. Her shoulder nudges his pauldron in agreement. “And I can’t imagine you chasing me around when you’re old and gray.”

She elbows him between the plates of his chest piece. “You’re kidding me, right? I’ll be the crankiest, most annoying old lady you’ll ever meet, and you can bet I’ll still be ordering you around.” She smirks. “Besides, no matter how old I am, you’re at least ten times as old. Don’t you forget, old man.”

He laughs, and some of the foreboding anxiety he has about the future slips away. No matter how time may change her - or how much he stays the same - what connects them both is timeless. Their feelings do not care about crows feet or gray hair, do not crumble under the threat of age. They grow in spite of it.

-/

There has not been much time for intimacy, for connecting. Cayde, the Reef, the Awoken, the Dawning, so much has come up to demand his attention. Now, with Crimson Days painting the Tower red and the Guardians jovial and bright once more, it’s possible to take some time for himself. At least, that’s what he’d hoped for.

For the first time, she hesitates. She doesn’t recoil, per se, but she knows he caught the subtle movement backward at his advance.

His eyes cloud with confusion, then concern. “Suraya,” He breathes, watching her carefully, willing his gaze to be as gentle and as scrutinous as possible. “What is it?”

She bites her lip. An anxious tell. She could have mentioned it to him, beforehand, sure. But she hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t wanted to talk herself out of it, wanted to reflect on her feelings, on the way she - regardless of how he’d felt, she knew herself. She sighs.

“Oh, hell,” She says, ripping off her poncho and the shirt beneath it. When she settles before him, his eyes are drawn to hers, while his hands rest on her collar bones before sliding down the newly revealed expanse of tawny brown skin.

He’s more concerned with making eye-contact than anything else - trying to get the read on what’s got her upset - that he doesn’t notice it until his fingers brush the raised skin over her heart.

Before he can ask, she kisses him, hard enough to make him groan and shift against her. He backpedals enough to get them to the bed, turning them in a practiced move so that he can lay her down. She’s strangely insatiable, her legs wrapping around his waist and pulling her up to meet him immediately. While he’s never been against her impatience, he knows it’s borne out of insecurity and not simply desire.

“Suraya,” He says, unhooking her legs and bringing them back down, “Talk to-” His eyes sweep over her bare chest.

Crimson ink. Two triangles and two diamonds that make one hexagon. Over her heart.

“-me.”

Trembling hands run over the outline of the brand. Slowly. Reverently. It is the symbol that defines him. Who he is as a man. His Light. His oath. His duty. He does not miss the implications of the color or placement. Theirs has never been a public relationship, their bond forged through private conversations and hard work, strong morals combined with the desire to protect and promote peace and justice.

“Are you upset?” She whispers.

Looking up at her face, he realizes her eyes are closed. His hands slide to cup her cheeks. “Look at me, sweetheart,” He encourages.

When she complies, he sweeps down and presses his lips against the mark, tongue lapping gently at the center of it. She gasps, not at some undiscovered pleasure center, but instead at the intimacy of it all: the emotion in his eyes, never leaving hers.

“I’m not angry,” He says, when he ceases, elbows braced on either side of her head, body arched over hers. “I’m touched. Honored.” He kisses her then, soft and tender, waiting for her to tip her head back and welcome him inside before taking control.

His thumb runs along the lines of it non-stop, equal parts awe and possessive, the gentle romance of it burning into something deeper, more consuming, more urgent. When he’s pressed inside her to the hilt, her fingers ghost over the twin marks on his neck to pull him back down. “I want,” He says, gasping when she wraps her legs around him in response, “I want one to match yours,” He whispers into her neck, the steeper angle breaking his usually collected nature with a groan. “I’m yours,” He vows. “Yours.” She nods, those muscles deep inside her squeezing just right around his length and he comes so hard he sees stars, dragging her over the edge with him.

He lays beside her afterwards, muscle and sinew marked by fleeting trails of starlight, watching her return from the brink of bliss. His hand remains over her heart, the faint thrumming of it a drum against skin marred by ink against his palm.

He refuses to wait.

The following day, he hears Shaxx bellowing with his usual gravitas, “Today, I will marry them all.” Arcite applauds his boisterous idea. Banshee-44 speaks with a Guardian about a fusion rifle, Rahool decrypts an engram. Tess is tinkering with her newest packages, making a loud display of pinks and reds. Overhead, Louis circles, crying loud and fierce.

Zavala presses tentatively against the new bond of crimson beneath his cuirass and regards the City below. For once, all is well.


End file.
